


Ill-Advised

by Alethia



Series: Passion Play [2]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Lancelot Pushes, M/M, POV Arthur, So much drinking, Temptation, arthur thinks too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-08
Updated: 2004-10-08
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:59:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cold trudge to his rooms only made Arthur hotter and by the time Lancelot pushed him up against the locked door even he couldn’t remember what had been so objectionable about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ill-Advised

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/98688.html).

“That one.”

Lancelot scoffed.

“Fine. That one.”

Rolled his eyes.

“That one.”

Laughed out loud. And didn’t stop.

Arthur sighed. He didn’t know why he put up with this irritating sot. If he had any sense in him he’d stay far away. Not that he could, damn lure that Lancelot was, enticing Arthur to his great shame, entreating him to take that which could not be freely given in the first place.

Dangerous and irresponsible. But impossible to look upon long years stretched before them, perpetual frigid ache only this damnable man seemed to scorch.

Lancelot finally stopped laughing and looked at Arthur with a devilish grin, glint to his eye telling Arthur exactly how far into his cups Lancelot had gotten. Odd that he’d not noticed before. “Now I know why you’re so assured when it comes to your women. Choosing all the ugly ones must be a boon for your fragile confidence.”

“They are not—I do not need—I am not fragile.” Arthur indignantly settled on the last, sure of that answer at least. Scattered thoughts told him maybe he hadn’t paid enough attention to how many drinks he’d had. Amused knowledge Lancelot poorly hid might indicate that was purposeful.

Manipulative and irritating then. That recognition didn’t dampen the want any.

And the cheeky brat kept right on laughing, looking around as if eyeing so much prey. Quieted, blinding gash of a smile slipping away, eyes settling on a pretty young thing, the focus of many of the knights’ attentions.

“Now _that_ one I would understand.” Low purr of appreciation and Arthur couldn’t seem to take his eyes from Lancelot, watch the other man’s pleasure, molten heat curling it into Arthur’s own.

Arthur forced himself to look over again, judging the girl to be maybe seventeen, only a few years Lancelot’s junior, and full of the fragile youth which would so quickly desert her in this harsh land. Blankness behind dead-pretty eyes, nothing like the gentle strength in those Arthur had chosen.

“And you pick the most favored. So which of us really has the point to prove?” Arthur very carefully did not analyze the source of this new annoyance.

Lancelot snorted inelegantly, turning the bright light of attention back to Arthur, not reluctant in the slightest. “That would be you, chasing after all the homely women better suited to washing your shirts than warming your bed.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’d push them out of your bed.”

“No reason to be cruel if they’re already there. But then, I’m not the one giving desperate young women the hope of the continued affections of a Roman commander. Less cruel to push them away, I think.”

Arthur looked down, tilted his mug, and didn’t answer. What amazing grains of truth often fell from such a sharp tongue.

A disgusted grunt pulled his attention back to Lancelot, who shook his head and looked on Arthur with familiar annoyance. “And now you’ll start guilting yourself for the rest of the night. I can never tell whether it’s your religion or just you.”

“A shame you don’t dislike both equally.”

“Don’t think I’m not tempted. But you offer more delights than your religion.” His lascivious grin tightened more than just Arthur’s jaw, and his annoyance reappeared, even more acute.

“And according to you I should remove myself from that sphere entirely.” Arthur could feel the heat in his cheeks, tellingly behind his eyes, but Lancelot’s alarm distracted the other man from noting the latter.

“Now _that_ I didn’t say. Besides, I am no maid.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked to Lancelot’s easy sprawl, accentuating sharp angles and smooth lines, pleasing him the same way that looking upon the Forum did. The sight of something familiar soothed much in him.

“I can see that.” He drained his mug.

Slow intake of breath and Lancelot shifted, eyes losing a bit of their focus and narrowing with thoughtless, armor-piercing intent. “Arthur—”

“Arthur!” Boomed close by and Bors rumbled over, mug in his hand swaying wildly. “How is it our great leader has not yet found a pretty thing?” Another commander might have bristled, Arthur knew, but he didn’t think the mocking tone was anything other than drink and lingering frustration.

Not that it mattered, seeing the furious jut of Lancelot’s jaw, frustration at the interruption or real offense, Arthur couldn’t guess. Perhaps both.

“Bors. You’d best keep a watchful eye over Vanora tonight. She might go seeking comfort in someone more—able.” He’d turned to address the other man and it gave Arthur the opportunity to study his profile, already sharp and commanding. At some point in all this Lancelot had grown into himself and Arthur hadn’t consciously noticed until now. The knowledge just made the ache a sharper thing, hooking into something deep and tearing more painfully at all efforts to dislodge it.

“Like you, child?” Bors scoffed, swaying precariously, and if he broke another table tonight Lancelot’s advice might actually be needed.

He snorted, infuriatingly easy, and at least Arthur wasn’t the only one he treated so. “I’ve had her too often. I like diversity.”

Arthur shook his head as Bors glared and started to retort, but was interrupted, shooed away by the subject of their conversation. Vanora shot a quelling glance at Lancelot as she surreptitiously collected Bors’ mug. Lancelot didn’t look chagrined in the least. 

“One of these days you’ll push him too far.”

“Not _this_ day,” Lancelot answered pointedly. And smoothly turned back to his wine. Those silky movements of arms and legs stoked that stubborn heat, resisted his best attempts at smothering a need whose fierceness he could hardly recognize.

“Lancelot, the Pure,” Arthur remarked, ironic twist to his lips, hoping for a distraction.

Lancelot scoffed. “I shall be remembered for far more important things than that.” Voice biting.

Arthur nodded, setting down his mysteriously refilled mug, acknowledging his loss. Internalizing his failure. He knew exactly how this night would end. “Yes. Yes, you will.” Sharp look from Lancelot, eyes glittering again, remembering shared heat.

“I wonder, Arthur, why it is that you can’t damn-well come to a decision.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A decision?”

“You push me away,” Lancelot easily gestured to the women scattered about the tavern, the subject of Lancelot’s derision earlier. “And then you pull me back.” He cocked his head, eyes calculating, measuring, offering something too overwhelming to even bear thinking of.

“I don’t do that.”

“You do. And I’m starting to think it’s less that you’re playing with me and more that you spend too much time in that damned head of yours.”

He flushed with truth again and turned the question around: “You mean you acknowledge that you’re not the focus of my existence? Lancelot, I’m shocked.” It was too late to consider such things and Arthur knew when the fight was over. Hell, he’d never even been in it. Not really.

“Better if I were than all that guilt you lord over yourself.”

Arthur sent him a pointed look before settling back—disengaging, a traitorous part of his mind supplied—observing their surroundings. The lateness of the hour meant most of the soldiers had wandered off, with company or without. Bors looked to be convincing Vanora to close early. He seemed to be having some luck if her heady flush was anything to judge by.

Galahad had rustled up the courage to approach Lancelot’s choice for the evening, gangly youth still clinging, though the cant of his hips was undeniably masculine. He had the nerves of a fighter, that was assured. The thought pleased Arthur; perhaps he might make it through this after all.

“Arthur.”

Attention inexorably brought back to Lancelot, as it always was. Some kind of rightness in that. “Lancelot.”

“It’s late and you’re still here.”

“Galahad’s stealing your girl.”

He snorted, derisive. “If she were really mine Galahad would be but a fly to be swatted at.”

“Maybe you should tell her that.”

Cunning eyes raked over his form, impatience written into them as plainly as the text of his Bible. Lancelot would no longer be deterred.

“Let’s go, Arthur.”

He nodded and stood—never even had a chance when faced with this—leaving the girl to Galahad’s fumbling attentions, Gawain’s barely restrained hilarity at the same.

Cold trudge to his rooms only made Arthur hotter and by the time Lancelot pushed him up against the locked door even he couldn’t remember what had been so objectionable about this.

Lancelot hissed as Arthur rid him of his tunic, ran cold fingers over vulnerable flesh. Kissed him—desperate and violent—when Arthur made to pull back. 

Arthur tugged Lancelot closer, hands sweeping all over him, stumbling them back toward the bed with a sharp tongue stabbing into his mouth. He pushed back and climbed over Lancelot, groaning when a thigh rubbed at him wantonly. 

Arthur ran thoughtful fingers down over exposed ribs: “You should eat more.” The wine made the world wonderfully soft, made Lancelot’s skin feel better under his hands, probably taste better, too. He leaned down to take a bite. A feast laid out and waiting.

Lancelot paused, fingers stilling on Arthur’s clothes, incredulous puff of air expelled between them. He recovered quickly, tugging more frantically than before. “This is what you think about? No wonder your sex life is that of a pathetic old man.”

Arthur pulled up and stripped off his own tunic, tossing it aside. “At least I don’t go slutting it around town like some.” He leaned down and bit at Lancelot’s chest again, intent, watching for a reaction. Mind wholly focused on Lancelot now, concentration pared down to one prickly, pleasantly writhing, unabashedly _complicated_ man.

Lancelot tossed his head back onto unresisting pillows, too casually practiced to fool Arthur. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

Arthur pulled up a bit, looking a weight at him. “I notice more than you think.”

Rather than saying anything, Lancelot tangled his hand in Arthur’s hair and pulled, fusing mouths together in a melding that said more than mere words anyway. It made Arthur’s hands shake, pulling ineffectually at trousers that had somehow become a foreign concept in the span of but a moment.

Lancelot wiggled underneath him—not helping _at all_ , really—and managed to get them down enough to expose hot skin and smooth hardness, flexing at Arthur’s touch. He groaned into the pressure of Arthur’s hands, pushing at Arthur’s clothes and cursing boots and Arthur and the cold that made such things as _clothes_ even necessary.

Arthur finally relented, releasing Lancelot and scrabbling at cloth until they were again pressed to one another, Lancelot mouthing at Arthur’s jaw and searing into him with every breath.

“Too good,” Arthur muttered absently, tracing patterns down Lancelot’s sides and gasping every time Lancelot bit at _that spot_.

“No such thing. Now stop stalling and fuck me,” Lancelot growled, biting harshly at Arthur’s jaw and sucking at the mark he left.

His breathy groan might have been too loud. “People are going to see that tomorrow,” he muttered, hating that he didn’t care as much as he should.

“Good. Now where’s that damn oil?”

“Impatient,” Arthur clucked, digging around for the small container he knew he left somewhere…

“Getting what I want before you change your mind on me,” Lancelot answered, hips _grinding_ into Arthur’s mindlessly, a ragged burn at the edges of Arthur’s vision.

Too much skin and heat and it flayed Arthur alive. He almost slumped into it, had to shake himself, finally coming up with the damn oil and sinking back onto Lancelot properly, greeting him with a kiss that made his jaw ache.

He licked at Lancelot’s mouth, in, out, and over, subtly shifting to let Lancelot move. The other man stayed stubbornly where he was.

“Turn over,” Arthur grunted, hand squeezing Lancelot’s thigh meaningfully, liking the strength that pressed back at him.

“No, like this,” he replied, wiggling and spreading his legs, stubborn set to his jaw that said Arthur wouldn’t win. He might have argued the point, but the ache in his prick scattered coherent thought to the wind and he couldn’t seem to pull himself back from the edge of nothingness.

Arthur pushed Lancelot’s legs up with a growl, slick fingers finding vulnerable flesh and making it yield, slow sink in that he _pulsed_ at, watched as Lancelot arched onto it, keening high in the back of his throat. Two and three and Lancelot thrashed wildly on him, eyes boring the point into Arthur’s brain and making him _taste_ it.

The grunt as he pulled his fingers back was nothing like the needy groan as Arthur pushed back in, prick trapped in tight, grasping heat that made his eyes roll back. He forced himself to breathe, stay still, stay in the moment, but Lancelot’s heels in his back urged him on, prodding him toward total annihilation.

He grunted as he pushed home, all the way in, no fuss or pleasantries. “Pushy prick,” he muttered, holding himself until Lancelot’s body relaxed, remembered that this was not an unwelcome invasion. It had been awhile.

“I wish you’d stop pussying around and _push_ that _prick_ into me, dammit,” Lancelot growled, squeezing almost painfully around Arthur, heels still in his back and marking their displeasure.

Arthur retreated and sank back in, a measure of what Lancelot wanted, and got a moan for the effort. Tight channel no longer forbidding, Lancelot’s eyes sparked in pleasure and Arthur did it again, just to see that look.

“You have a filthy mouth,” he said, setting up a rhythm and grinning at the way Lancelot’s mouth fell slack at every thrust in, slow drag out. Liked the scent of the two of them, something humid and cloying in the cold of the air, something familiar in the way _everything_ about Lancelot felt familiar.

Lancelot came back to himself, no little effort expended to do so, and dug his fingers into Arthur’s shoulders. “Shut up and _move_.”

His own pleasure shunted aside, Arthur focused on dragging more of those lost moans out of Lancelot. He sped up, harsh flex into Lancelot’s body that made the man arch and catch his breath. Arthur experimented with angles, shifting until he found out exactly how to make Lancelot unhinged with pleasure, beyond speech, beyond thought, moving on Arthur like it was the only thing that mattered.

It amazed him to watch it in Lancelot’s eyes, see how it progressed, how those dark eyes were swallowed by black and sparked whenever Arthur’s prick hit that place inside him.

A ruthless squeeze around him brought Arthur’s own need back to him and his rhythm shattered, breathing stuttering with the force.

“Bastard,” he ground out, eyes closed in concentration.

Lancelot laughed distantly but relented, groaning more vigorously now that Arthur sought his own pleasure.

The dim thought occurred that Lancelot _wanted_ that, wanted Arthur to disregard Lancelot and serve himself. But it was too difficult a thought to maintain when Lancelot _squeezed_ around him again—tight heat unrelenting— Lancelot detaching one hand to work his own prick between them.

Only a few strokes, a few thrusts, and Lancelot was shuddering and stilling beneath him, wet heat hitting Arthur’s stomach and that channel clenching in earnest. Arthur rode that, letting the pressure and piercing dark eyes take him into oblivion. One last thrust and he pressed fully inside Lancelot, spilling and catching Lancelot’s sympathetic moan in a breathless kiss.

Lancelot slumped beneath him and Arthur followed him, sprawled out like he never did. Probably what Lancelot intended and Arthur tried to stir, prick still pressed deeply inside the other man, though somewhat less impressively. Lancelot was having none of it, legs still firmly wrapped around Arthur, effectively holding him there.

Arthur grunted. “Let me up.”

“No.” By God, he was such a _child_. 

“I don’t want to hurt you, Lancelot. Let me up.”

“Don’t you think I’m most qualified to say what’s hurting me?” he asked, orgasm having not improved his mood, it seemed.

Arthur ground down again, pressing into Lancelot on a point, triumph melding into guilt when Lancelot hissed. 

“Fine.” Petulant and obviously caring not a whit about that, he unlocked his legs, letting Arthur pull back to sprawl out beside him. Arthur watched as Lancelot flexed his legs, gritting his teeth and holding in any indication of pain.

“The other way would have been easier.”

“I don’t want ‘easier,’” he said, harshness on his tongue belied by how he turned and curled into Arthur, close but not touching. Apparently his demands only went so far.

Arthur moved until skin met skin, heat washing over him again. He pulled at a blanket and covered them both, enclosing them in a shared space that felt like more than it should have been. Lancelot’s eyes tracked his movements and Arthur found himself reluctant to meet them.

A slim finger pressed against his brow, smoothing out tension there, and it finally forced him to look at Lancelot.

“Stop it,” he said simply.

“What?”

“Whatever it is that makes you want to hide away.” Always asking too much, too fast, too soon. Arthur never could keep up.

Instead of answering he rolled half over Lancelot, pressing him back to the bed and taking his lips in a kiss that had nothing to do with sex. Lancelot relented, tongue flicking at his own, tasting like contentment.

And Arthur knew forgiveness. For always letting Lancelot down and never being able to give him what he most wanted.

He didn’t deserve this.

“Well, this was an improvement, I’d say.” Forced levity there and Arthur appreciated the effort, even if he did want to go slink into a corner and think.

He raised an eyebrow, waiting until Lancelot explained himself. 

“Well, me of course. Much better than one of those hags you were eyeing earlier.”

“Lancelot…”

“What? It’s true. Really, Arthur, you could have anyone. I don’t see why you keep on with the ones you do.”

“Or why I keep on with you?”

Lancelot grinned, sharp and friendly, earlier animosity seemingly forgotten. “That’s obvious. I’m me.” Said like he was a particularly dumb pupil and only Lancelot could take him back to his school days, the bastard.

“Deep observation,” he said, smiling slightly, feeling tiredness sweep over him now that he was being let off.

“Mmm. I could outdo your moldy old philosophers any day.” Lancelot brushed two errant fingers across his jaw and Arthur turned into it, closing his eyes and savoring the gentle touch. Unusual for Lancelot and only in moments like these. Maybe better that way; Arthur could get too used to this.

Lancelot sniffed. “Go to sleep, Arthur.”

“Anything you wish,” Arthur answered, snide even as he was drifting off.

His defeated snort wasn’t enough to pull Arthur back. “If only.”

Arthur knew no more.

*** 

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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